Reality

"I did not die, and did not remain
alive;
now think for thyself, if thou hast any grain of ingenuity, what I
became,
deprived of both life and death." -- The Divine Comedy by Dante

"Once one has reached the Point
of
No Return--Reality then Begins".

One more time I realize there is
that pesky flashlight in my face, and I hear the invitation for
"Breakfast
at Five and Briefing at Six."

I lay there dragging my eyes open
and getting my thoughts together, little knowing how this fateful day
would
end.

This would be mission number
four.
I wonder what hellish target is on that map in the Briefing Room. We'd
been to Cologne, Bremen, and Kassel and we'd flown as a spare
yesterday.
If nothing else we are surely learning the geography of Germany. This
time
around I shave in warm water, as I had remembered to fill my helmet and
put it on the stove before going to bed. There had been hot water last
night, so I had had the luxury of a hot shower. I'm learning the
routine,
I thought as I put on the clothes laid out the night before.

As I walked out the door, I
looked
at the empty beds and thought, Those guys were here yesterday doing
the same things I am doing today. Little did I know that by night
there
would be a 600 more empty beds. Over 60 of our planes would be shot
down.

Outside it was not only black, it
was foggy. I was thinking, Will they have us take off with this fog?
Walking into the Combat Mess there was that same knot in my stomach,
and
those eggs were still staring at me. Sitting down at the table as usual
was Bob, with a full plate and a blank look on his face. Resnik was no
longer interested in eating too much after that first mission, when at
altitude he ended up with terrific cramps. Soon we were outside and
again
had to "hurry up and wait."

I began thinking of some of the
things
you learn with each mission: (1) using a condom to put over the mike in
your oxygen mask to keep it dry, (2) squeezing your oxygen mask so the
ice doesn't clog it up, (3) then shaking the ice out. I then began
getting
smart enough to carry two masks. Using a condom to urinate in, tying a
knot in it, and then throwing it out as a gift to Germany (later, when
my children would ask what I did during the war, I told them, "I had
the
pleasure of pissing all over Germany.")

On the first mission, I had
noticed
that soon after we left the target many of the planes opened their bomb
bay doors again and I could see one or two cardboard chaff boxes come
tumbling
out (chaff were thin strips of tinfoil used to confuse the German
radar).
When I asked about it, I received a big laugh and was advised, "It's
our
Secret Weapon." You will soon find out!" Later, on the trip to Bremen,
one of the crew had to answer nature's call. He used one of the chaff
boxes,
and so we were also able to bomb Germany twice on that trip.

Then the doors to the Briefing
Room
swung open. Soon we are all enveloped in a heavy smoke haze, with the
temperature
increasing noticeably from the body heat and everyone sweated out the
mission.
As I look around I notice everyone is sitting at all angles and
postures.
Some are sitting up straight as a ramrod, and some are even sound
asleep.
Others are engaged in animated conversations with their neighbors while
the rest are staring straight ahead at nothing. You can feel the fear,
the dread, and the underlining thought of death in the room, but we are
all are confident in our training and in each other.

Suddenly a nattily dressed Major
(a ground pounder) steps on the stage and begins roll call, calling the
names of each crew commander. Each answers for his crew. The Major then
moves to the back of the stage and draws the black curtain of doom.
This
revealed the map that dictated our lives for the next fourteen hours.
There
is a hushed silence as everyone leans forward, looking at the fateful
end
of the red yarn. "It's Schweinfurt," the Major says with a smile. He
gives
us time to think. Abruptly a buzz of voices breaks out, and one voice
says
"Sonofabitch! And this is my last mission." It was. He was one of those
who never made it back.

The Security Officer steps
forward
and instructs us, "Do not talk about the mission once you have left the
room, and this also applies to a scrubbed target. Anyone flying this
mission
who has not had POW instruction report to the S-2 officer after this
briefing.
Be sure to wear your dog tags, GI shoes, and don't wear any insignia.
Carry
your rank, name, and serial number, and no billfolds, pictures, or
letters.
No one will leave this briefing until dismissed."

Everyone is sitting up
attentively,
listening to the intelligence officer. There is no longer any screwing
around for his instructions are life and death to us. There is an
immediate
feeling of immense doom that goes through the briefing room. No one
tries
to look at anyone else. We are all thinking the same thing, Who
will
be missing from here tonight? How many crews will get it today?

We are advised the flak should be
light enroute, although we will pick up some south of the Ruhr. The
Major
spoke again. "The target will be defended by about 500 88mm guns, and
the
gun crews are very good. You will be under aimed fire from the flak for
seven minutes. The enemy fighters will be persistent and aggressive.
The
fighters will try to break up the formation with head-on attacks. Don't
panic and try to dodge. This would leave you wide open if you straggle.
Always stay in the defensive diamond formations and if someone ahead of
you gets out of the formation, move right up into his place, for he has
either been hit and will go down anyway, or he is straggling." We never
dally around, because it was our necks.

The weather officer takes the
stage
and is the least assuring of all. The weather is lousy. The visibility
is down to a quarter mile, but we were assured it will be up to one
mile
by take off. That is a lot better when you are rolling down a runway
which
is only a mile long and the belly of your plane is pregnant with
stifled
hell. The wings on the B-17's contain 3000 gallons of 100-octane
flaming
inferno. Well, there it is. Everyone stands up to leave, but some wait.
They soon assemble in little groups as men slip to their knees before
their
chaplains-Protestant, Catholic, and Jew.

When we walked into the ready
room,
I had been suddenly hit with a deep depression and a feeling of dread.
I thought, This is not the glamorized Wild Blue Yonder we had all
heard
so many times. We will be fighting five miles above the earth. There
are
no foxholes to hide in up there. Most of the time there isn't even the
opportunity of fighting back. We just sit there and take it. We live by
the laws of chance as we drive through the flak that seems thick enough
to walk on. There is always the chance we will be where the projectile
shot at us blindly from the ground will intersect the plane and
ourselves.
We are continually facing the life and death struggle of the plane with
all of us inside. Maybe some dead, perhaps some wounded, and some not
even
scratched. At that moment all of our lives would reach a crisis in the
heaving and smoking plane from the freezing hostile sky.

It wasn't the anxiety of maybe
being
killed before the day ended, but a deeper, far-off feeling, as if I
weren't
operating within my own body.

As I dressed in preparation for
the
long mission, I looked at the rest of the crew with a detached and
lonely
sadness wondering, Will we still be together tonight? I would
never
have exposed my feelings to the crew for fear they would feel I was not
equal to doing my part-- all of our lives depended on each other.

In kind of a dream I walk to our
plane, and I go through the motions of the checklist for pre-flight. I
was there physically doing all the things that were necessary, but I
felt
detached and totally out of my body. I had the feeling that I was in
another
dimension watching what I was doing. I was there, but wasn't there.
Knowing
we were in for a rough mission and that we would catch hell from the
fighters,
we loaded many additional boxes of caliber fifty ammunition. We
rechecked
our flak suits and helmets. Then all of us made one last trip to the
bushes
to relieve ourselves.

All too soon we were starting the
engines, taxiing into position, moving down the runway, and again
skimming
those damn trees. We formed up at 28,000 feet then headed for Europe
for
what we didn't know. I was there, but it was as if I was doing
everything
only by the numbers.

Suddenly I heard from the top
turret
over the intercom, "Bandits 9:00 o'clock high." This was
instantaneously
followed by the tails and the noses of fighters coming in from all
directions.
Immediately you could feel those twenty millimeters going through the
plane.

The sound of a cannon shell
hitting
a fortress depends on where you are. If you aren't too close it is like
a metallic WOOF and you feel a jar that shakes the whole plane,
which reaches you and leaves you instantly. If the shell explodes close
to you there is nothing gentle and it certainly isn't a momentary
tremor.
It is like a giant slapping his hand on the water. There are two
sounds:
one from the impact and the second of it exploding. It's like firing a
shotgun into a bucket which and having it all come back, exploding in
your
face. For a moment you aren't scared because your senses are dulled.

Your bowels seem weak. (You
tighten
your pucker string.) Your stomach shrivels up until you can figure out
how badly you are hurt. It was as if a huge electrical shock had hit me
and from then on to this day I have never felt fear. It was as if my
mind
had gone into a corner to hide and then had come charging out to do
battle.
In talking to others later, I found we all have gone through some
aspect
of this type of withdrawal. Some came back stronger, and some retreated
into themselves and would no longer be able to perform.

I immediately found myself in a
world
alien to everything I had ever experienced. There were ME-109s and
FW-190s
leaping into existence from everywhere without warning. When they
opened
fire you saw sudden flashes of light winking at you from the distance.
All at once there existed a canopy of cannon shells and bombs, aerial
mines,
and rockets exploding everywhere. Each one was intent on hitting us and
our pregnant bomb load. We were no longer in a stately march in tight

formation through the upper heavens.
We try desperately to return to the crisp efficiency of our tight
formation,
but it is impossible to achieve in this raging space of time. We find
ourselves
slogging our way through a thickening mass of exploding flame and
smoke,
with the equal determination of every member of the crew. We are
driving
through a solid whirlwind of steel splinters, flame, and jagged chunks
of red-hot metal. The steel is everywhere. It crashes into wings,
engines,
bulkheads, and airplane bodies; and into the bodies of men--spewing
blood,
tissues, intestines, and brains.

The plane seems alive with lights
as all the guns are firing and the noise is deafening. There is the
continuous
intercom shout of "INCOMING BANDITS!" They came from all around the
clock.
The fourteen caliber 50 machine guns of our plane can be heard and felt
above all the roar of the engines. Our world seems to plunge into
insanity
as the sounds of air battle all around us y merge into an inhuman
shriek.
Our ship doesn't seem to be occupied by men. We are transformed into
beings
from another world, with strange breathing systems dangling beneath our
faces.

As quickly as it started, the
fighters
are gone and we are alone with only the extremely bright sun. Our enemy
now is the temperature, which is minus fifty degrees and never seems to
relax its vigil against us for any exposure to sensitive flesh and
frostbite.

Central Germany is now below us,
and in the distance we can see the first black specks of flak over the
target. We now begin to assess what battle damage we have taken. Is
everyone OK? Soon everyone is checking in: "Tail OK except almost
out
of ammo and was reloading the belts." "Waist OK. Lost my flak helmet
somewhere."
"Ball, one of the side windows was hit, can't see anything except
straight
ahead." "Radio, OK." "Top Turret, think I was hit in the leg and my
ammunition
boxes are gone." It turns out that a twenty mm came through the turret,
knocking out the ammo boxes on each side and tearing off his flight
suit
at the thigh. He had a slight red mark on one leg. Ammo boxes were
moved
in and connected to both guns with the hope they wouldn't jam.

In the cockpit the gauges were
still
working, but the glass on the dials looks as if someone had taken a
hammer
to them. The radio compass is shattered and the other radios are
hanging
by their connecting cords. All seem to be working, at least the
intercom
is OK. The right portion of the windshield in front of the co-pilot has
two vicious looking cracks in it. The co-pilot's flak helmet was
knocked
off and has a huge hole in it. He doesn't have a mark, although I think
he is turning gray.

In the nose one of the cheek guns
is out. The navigator's table is shattered as well as his instruments.

For all the holes our plane is
still
flying. It's a miracle nobody has been seriously wounded.

When we turned on IP, the
bombardier
is already looking for his aiming point, as the plane controls are
hooked
to the bomb sight. Again the fighters are coming in all directions, but
this time it is the squadron ahead of us that is getting hit.

Soon the sky around us filled
with
flak burst, paving a solid black steel asphalt roadway to Schweinfurt.
The explosions sound as if someone is throwing rocks at you when they
burst
close. Those flak gunners on the ground are good.

Normally the fighters will leave
when you get into the flak from the target, this time they are flying
through
their own flak. Apparently, they have been ordered to defend the target
at all costs. These fighters may be the enemy but I have never seen
braver
men.

All the German efforts to keep us
from the target have failed, but we have paid a tremendous price in men
and planes. The stakes were high, but the Devil was the winner. The
target
below is now fast deteriorating into smoke and debris as our strings of
bombs walk through the city. The dead will outnumber our losses by a
great
number. Finally we feel the plane lighten in little jerks as the bombs
pass out the bomb bay on their way to Germany.

We are now at the halfway point
of
the mission as we begin a wide turn to the right. There is little need
to get into formation as everyone is staying close. As we make our turn
one can see the other formations behind us. They look ragged and are
still
under attack from the fighters. The fighters are leaving the "cripples"
alone, going for those planes still carrying bombs. As we turn you can
see the target below and the sticks of bombs on their five mile flight
to the earth. The target is covered with smoke and gray dust is rising
from the impact of the bombs.

As we look out there are no
fighters
roaring in against us with their guns winking at us. It seems so quiet
and good to hear only the noise of the engines and the air rushing by
as
our faithful girl hurtles us towards our base in England.

We are soon over France. A few
fighters
appear in the distance but do not press any attack against us. We
wonder,
Are
they as low on ammunition and as tired as we are? We also now look
for our little friends and assume they must be busy somewhere else. The
cloud cover comes up to 20,000 feet and we are told to let down over
the
channel. Each group will proceed to their base individually.

We soon see the angry water of
the
channel. Then we are flying up a large estuary on the East Coast of
England
that we call the "Wash." When the smoke stacks of Peterborough are in
sight
we turn southwest and there is Polebrook below us. What a wonderful
sight,
and how many times in the past twelve hours have we all wondered if
we'd
ever see the base again?

As we cross the field preparing
to
break into the landing pattern, we can see the men on the hardstands,
the
meat wagons with the large red cross on the top, and the fire trucks
parked
all along the runway. They are all watching us and counting the bombers
and trying to read the symbols as we fly over. All at once, there are
many
red flares indicating wounded on board, and they will proceed into the
pattern and land first. Soon we are lined up with the runway on our
final
approach, crossing the boundary of the field, begin the flare, and soon
the wheels are finally touching the runway. We are again down on mother
earth.

As the tail settles to the
runway,
there is a terrific bang as if the plane had been ripped apart,
followed
with a loud screeching of metal! Not only had the tail wheel blown but
the whole tail assembly seems to be dragging behind the plane. The
tower
tells us we look like a giant sparkler and as soon as we have completed
our roll to pull off the runway and get out of the plane.

We find later that during the
fighter
attacks the total frame just forward of the horizontal stabilizer had
been
totally torn apart by the 20mm shells. Only the skin and the control
cables
held it together.

We complete our roll and moving
off
the runway into the grass and mud. The faithful engines' roar dies out
and the silence is followed by a mad dash of everyone from the plane.
As
we are leaving the plane, a fire truck and ambulance are johnny on the
spot.

Our plane, "Morning Delight" just
seemed to sit there panting. That gallant lady gave us all she had and
more for that total effort during the past ten hours. She never flew
again,
she was so heavily damaged, and became another "Queen Bee"--used for
parts.
You don't live and fly a fortress for months without coming to know the
plane in the most intimate way. You know the sturdy construction she
represents
and how forgiving she is to fly. The Morning Delight would be there in
our hearts, for all of us, in the days to come if by chance we were to
survive this war.

We retrieve our gear from the
plane
and are picked up by a truck.

We pass the parking and
maintenance
area for the plane (we call them hardstands) with their waiting crews.
They all wave and give us the victory sign. However, many of these
ground
crews will soon silently and sadly return to their headquarters. The
plane
and crewmen which were a part of them will not return. They will wait
for
a new bomber with a new combat crew.

We have the truck stop at our
hardstand
so we can tell the crew chief and his people that we made it. If it had
not been for the maintenance on that plane we would probably be down
somewhere
in Germany now, a statistic. It is little wonder we have come to the
realization
it is impossible to complete a full tour. Everyone comes to the
conclusion
you will either get it, or be shot down eventually.

As we all proceed to de-briefing
we look around and the faces this morning which had the look of
expectation
are now gray and blank. We are all thinking of too many friends who
have
gone down in flames before our eyes. What about tomorrow and the
tomorrow
after that? There are too many concrete hardstands stained with oil
and grease where the bombers had once stood so majestically that are
now
standing empty. Only a terrible aching void remains. A ground crewman
is
seen aimlessly walking off, looking as if he had lost his brother.

In the debriefing room we all sit
around the table and this time the questions are quietly asked with a
great
deal of consideration. How many fighters, types, and methods of attack?
Were there any special weapons or markings? How about the flak, how
much,
did it appear accurate?

Later I read a report of what one
B-17 pilot said at a debriefing on October 13, 1943: "I had accepted
the
fact that I was not going to live through this mission. It was as
simple
as that. I was calm; it was a strange sort of resignation. I knew for
certain
that it was only a matter of seconds or minutes. It was impossible for
us to survive...." That sums it up for all of us.

The debriefing are usually not so
solemn, but this time all of us are totally engulfed by the shock of
the
mission. Most of us still didn't believe we were back, safe on the
ground.
We are bone tired. I still remember clearly how tired I was all the
time
I flew combat. We also felt sick with the reflection of all that death.
We had somehow survived. But our friends and brothers were struck down,
gone to that undiscovered country from whence no traveler returns. We
all
stare at the floor with glazed eyes. We smoke cigarettes and drink
tasteless
coffee.

As we are leaving the briefing
room
we notice that Bob is stumbling along. We see he is crying. All of us
are
crying inside, thinking of those who didn't get back.

We had soon found war is not ever glorious, but cruel and unjust.

But we are proud, for despite all
the attacks against our formations the Eight Air Force was never turned
back. We always bombed the target.